


stockholm

by Cypherr



Series: Hollow [14]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Kinda, Manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome, Vilbur, Villain Wilbur Soot, but i got carried away with tommy angst, sue me, this was supposed to be techno receiving a note from wilbur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:41:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27707801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cypherr/pseuds/Cypherr
Summary: "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine."
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: Hollow [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958773
Comments: 36
Kudos: 548





	stockholm

**Author's Note:**

> no, this part wasn't supposed to exist but I'm a depressed teen who thrives off angst so sue me  
> techno pov next
> 
> also YES i KNOW tommy is ooc in this story idc suck my dick he's a traumatized child let him act like one

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine." There was a hand in his hair and the pillow (was it a pillow?) that rested underneath his heavy head was warm. He was groggy, barely aware, and his entire body felt as if it were made of solid iron.

"You make me happy, when skies are gray." He knew that voice- that soothing melody. It was what Wil always sang to him when he was sick. Was he sick?

"Wilbs?" he managed to slur, vocal cords lagging far behind his already slow mind. He only got a low-pitched hum in response.

"Wha's goin' on?" He grumbled. He was tired. Why was he awake? Where was he? Why was he so tired? His chest hurt.

"Go back to sleep, bubba. Rest up." He didn't want to. He wanted to know what was happening.

He went to rub his eyes in the hope that the action would clear away some of the fog that has settled itself in his head, but he found that he couldn't move his hand. Or, more accurately, he _could,_ but only both of them- together- because of the rough rope of a lead that bound them to each other by the wrist. The action was successful, however, as he was now wide awake, awareness slamming into him with all the subtly of a minecart.

"Wilbur?" He croaked. Hos breathing was speeding up from his panic- shallow, desperate gulps for oxygen- but he didn't care. He had other, far more important things to worry about. Why was he here? Where _was_ 'here?' Why were his wri- oh. _Oh_. He was fucked. He was well and truly fucked, Wilbur had taken him because he was so _fucking stupid_. He had been _safe_ in those wallswith Techno and Dream. What had he been _thinking_? Why wasn't he nearly as scared as he should be? (He knew the answer, knew it like he knew how to breathe and keep his heart beating. He'd always want to feel safe with Wilbur. He hated himself for it- didn't even want to admit it.)

It hadn't even occurred to him that he _couldn't fucking see_ , stuck in such a blind panic, until he tried to shift his head and felt the smooth silk of a blindfold shift instead. This, he decided, was _so much fucking worse_ than death could ever be. (He could come back from death. He couldn't come back from this.) He was completely at Wilbur's mercy- utterly helpless to his whims.

He stopped struggling, stopped panicking. He just... floated. Let himself drown in his thoughts without ever really considering or expanding on any of them. Let the feelings of the present fade away until it was almost like a bad dream. The hand in his hair never stopped.

"I'll be right back, m'kay?" a sigh. "I just wanted to make sure you woke up alright before I left." And then the hand disappeared, and his head was being lifted so Wilbur could get up and suddenly the prospect of Wil _not being there_ terrified him more than him _being there_. Terrified him more than he could ever hope to articulate.

"Don' go, Wilby," he cried helplessly, a high pitched whine escaping from his closing throat. His breathing had picked up again, arms desperately trying to reach for his brother as best they could.

"Shh, I'll be right back." then he was _gone_. It was _dark_ and he was _alone_ and he couldn't _move_.

He curled up, the best he could when his legs were tied at the ankle as well, suddenly feeling so _cold_ and _empty_. He wanted Wilbs back. He _needed_ Wilbs back.

He wasn't sure how long he laid there, face tucked into his knees, arms pressed close to his chest, shaking and sobbing, weakly crying out for his brother, but it felt like an eternity. An eternity stuck sightless and motionless, lost in his own head, crushingly aware of how _there was no one else there_.

He could not hear the scribble of an ink-filled quill on yellowed parchment, nor could he hear the squawk of a messenger parrot and the flap of its wings as it soared away. What he _could_ hear was footsteps, slowly approaching his pathetic, trembling form. (He hated himself. He really, truly did. This was not TommyInnit. This was not even Tom. He no longer recognized himself. How did he get to this point?)

"W-Wilby?" He whined, begging to have his company again- to not be left _alone_. There was no reply, but the bed- well, he assumed it was a bed- dipped, his head was replaced on Wil's lap, and the hand resumed its soothing pattern through his sweat-slicked hair. (Why was he sweating? He wasn't overheating. It was cold. He was cold. It was so cold.) He sobbed in relief, tension bleeding from his frame as his shoulders heaved with the effort. He did his best to bury his head further into Wilbur's lap- to get as close as possible. He wished he had his hands free, if only so he could stop him from leaving again.

"Don' go Wilbs, _please_ ," he begged, cried not subsiding.

"Do you promise to be good, Tommy?" The words were harsh, a stark contrast to the gentle motions of the fingers against his scalp.

"What?" What was that supposed to mean? He just didn't want to be left alone again.

"Will. You. Behave?" The hand gripped his blonde locks tightly now, alighting his head with white-hot tingles and pinpricks of pain, reminding him of the static of a faulty comm.

"I promise! I promise!" He whimpered, fresh, burning tears soaking his blindfold even further, carving their way down his face.

"Good boy." The hand relaxed its grip, petting him once more. He felt another grab his wrists, arms, gently untying the rough lead. It gently massaged his chafed, likely red, wrists, cool it its touch against his ablaze skin. The hand moved on after a couple of minutess, and he whined at the loss of contact. The blindfold was slipped from over his eyes next, the untied cloth falling uselessly to the red sheets below.

He tilted his head to look up at Wilbur, leaning heavily into the hand that cupped his tear-stained cheek. His red-rimmed eyes made contact with Wil's warm brown ones (like cocoa on a chilly night- they felt _safe._ ) There was a small smile on his face, no trace of the madness left. He was in his soft, yellow sweater, maroon beanie pulled carefully over his combed, curly hair. He had his round glassed on, as well. He looked like _home_ for the first time in _so long_.

"W-Wilbs," he sniffled, continuing to stare at his brother. (because he was his brother. He was... right?)

"I missed you, Toms," Wil whispered back, like the moment was only meant to be shared between them, despite the otherwise empty room.

"Can I hug you, Wilby? Like- like-"

"Like you used to when you had a nightmare?" He finished for him. Tommy merely nodded, still scared to break eye contact, like if he did, his Wilbur would disappear and be replaced by President Soot. He never even got the chance to move before Wil was scooping him up in his arms, tucking his head under his chin, letting him curl up against his chest.

The arms around him weren't burning, anymore. Wilbs was here. Wilbs was safe. Wilbs was kind and gentle and sweet. Wilbs would never hurt him. _He had his Wilbs back_.

"It'll be just me and you, bubba. _Forever_."

(He never had Wilbs in the first place.)

**Author's Note:**

> Thanksgiving is in 2 fucking days and I'm going to scream  
> there's going to be SO MANY PEOPLE- the joys of a family who don't believe in the LITERAL PANDEMIC. like,,, bro,,, you know people who have DIED from covid are y'all fucking stupid (yes. yes they are. I hate it here)  
> on a side note, I've recently become obsessed with bluegrass so YEAH it's great 10/10 do recommend genre


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